Death and Democracy in Summertime Oslo

The waning hours of summer are upon us. While most are taking the long road back to auditoriums and libraries or looking to enjoy the last remaining bits of exuberant sunlight, the Norwegian capital still has things in store for the culturally curious. If you’re looking for something unique to fill an afternoon, the below events constitute welcoming (if imperfect) opportunities to reflect on two inescapable aspects of life: mortality and politics.

Fear of the Dark?

In his famed 1987 novel «Norwegian Wood», Japanese writer Haruki Murakami mused that death «is not the opposite of life, but a part of it. By living our lives, we nurture death». Almost 40 years later, an exhibition in the country mentioned in Murakami’s title offers a chance to ponder the end of human living in similar terms.

Aptly titled «Don’t Be Afraid», the display takes place in Oslo’s National Museum and runs until September 6th of this year. Its expressed purpose is to showcase how art can assist in understanding death, as well as how notions of the latter vary tremendously based on a person’s background and experiences.

It contains a vast chronological array of works (91 in total), ranging from ancient figurines to contemporary neon installations, though not in any particular order. Indeed, while the side-by-side co-existence of old and new is a central structural point, it does not give off a sense of confident balance. Instead, the result betrays something uneven, if not unambiguously chaotic.

Such issues are apparent from the beginning. Going up the stairs to the Light Hall on the third floor of the Museum, one is provocatively greeted by an enormous poster featuring Fin Serck-Hanssen’s «Blue Man in Black Leather», which shows a member of the leather subculture. While undoubtedly eye-catching and of artistic value, particularly vis-à-vis the more mainstream introduction of queer aesthetics back in the ‘80s, the flagship piece’s immediate relevance to the exhibition’s thematic is not clear.

This dissonance is further accentuated when contrasted with other, not-so-subtle (or at all) pieces. The photograph itself can be found within a veiled portion of the exhibit, next to a literal mourning attire from the 1890s. This is nevertheless the only section attempting to create a sort of contemplative atmosphere, with a hypnotic loop of melancholic music playing under a dark ambience. 

A Problem of Design

Supplementary attempts at tone-setting end up coming off as cliché. Nearby, for example, a big and bold structure resembling melting candles feels too on the nose to be taken sincerely, even if it does act as a frame for the masterful «Kathleen in the Taxi to Greer’s Funeral. Chicago» 1996 photograph by Nan Goldin. 

If anything, though, the sharpness of Goldin’s picture is in part blunted by its incorporation in said crude arrangement. It is only in the value of such specific praiseworthy works, and in defiance of its layout, that the exhibit manages to partially hit its stride and actually remind us of its stated mission to stimulate a debate about death through art.

Additional singular objects, like Adolph Tidemand’s 1854 painting «Funeral Feast», Maria Pasenau’s «Graveyard texting / With King Regrets» 2015-18 images, and Iver Jåks’ small 2002 «Unna Sieiddáš» sculpture, do carry the potential of nudging the viewer toward more intimate or humane considerations of demise and away from the instinctive fear that is used as a titular launching point.

The inclusion of architecture is another comparatively unexpected but, this time, overwhelmingly positive feature. Scale models of burial halls and crematoriums achieve a rare and moving balance between the emotional devastation and administrative banality of loss. But these shining points again remain in danger of being overlooked in the cacophony of their surroundings.

Overall, what is essential to keep in mind is that the somewhat gimmicky nature of certain works, such as Ola Enstad’s 1983 «Four Cradles» (spoiler: one of them is a coffin), is compensated for by the solemn rawness of others, such as Alf Edgar’s 1978 «Epidemic Girl». And while the entire presentation can oftentimes feel a bit all over the place, possibly aiming for cheap gut punches instead of earnest introspection, visitors are guaranteed to find at least one piece willing to speak to (or challenge) their perspective on the great equaliser.

Democratic Conundrums

Right across the street from the National Museum, within the same courtyard of the Oslo harbour, lies the Nobel Peace Centre. As part of its permanent structure, the museum dedicated to the aforementioned Prize holds a second-floor exhibition regarding each year’s winner. The current one, conveniently running until the same end date as «Don’t Be Afraid», is titled «Democracy on the Brink» and focuses on the Venezuelan struggle against authoritarianism. If existential queries about the grave don’t seem appetising, a more pragmatic look at the geopolitical reality of a volatile region and its people might do the trick.

An informative timeline draws parallels between the Latin American country’s descent into autocracy and Maria Corina Machado’s evolution from opposition figurehead to the eventual 2026 Nobel Peace Prize winner. Principal emphasis is also (at least on paper) assigned to the work of photographer Emin Özmen, documenting young Venezuelan exiles in Colombia.

Yet, irrespective of its political importance, the exhibition has several perceived shortcomings. For starters, Özmen’s fundamental work plays second fiddle to the Centre’s intent at promoting both Machado and the Norwegian Nobel Committee’s choice of awarding the Prize to her. Many of his photographs are cramped together, not given enough space (both metaphorical and literal) to shine on their own, while others are elevated just enough to potentially draw the viewer’s interest but not to genuinely inspire a follow-up discussion.

Empty Words, Charged Art

Furthermore, despite the overt political implications in regard to both the very existence and the choice in recipient of the Prize, the Centre’s language is steeped in a quasi-neutrality that provides the facts but holds off on a verdict. While under certain circumstances this could be commendable, it leaves a bad aftertaste when coming directly from an inherently political institution self-described as intent on «giving hope a voice». This is of paramount significance in the context of the United States’ capturing of Venezuelan dictator Nicolás Maduro, as well as Machado’s gifting of her Nobel medal to Donald Trump.

Regardless, the exhibition does house two striking pieces of art (Özmen’s laudable but underrepresented imagery notwithstanding). One is the first impression etched in the entrance; a handbag made of the now essentially worthless Venezuelan Bolívar currency (approximately 800 of them being equivalent to a single U.S. dollar). The Centre does well to point out that this simple act of symbolic protest is punishable by law with more than three decades in prison. 

The second is an action figure of Súper Bigote, Maduro’s cartoon alter ego and plain propaganda tool. Suspended in mid-air amid the darkness, the toy is a visual memento to the tyrannical cruelty that the Prize often combats – even if the latter’s nurturing institutions can sometimes exude a sense of urgency at washing their hands of whatever happens after the award ceremony is over.

Worth a Shot

In spite of the above criticisms that are inevitably subject to personal preference, the two exhibitions are a practical and edifying way of occupying the last days of August. At the very least, their mission as conversation starters for two colossal (both in weight and noteworthiness) topics is accomplished. With relatively compact spatial ranges and the handiness of being next door to each other, both events allow a visitor to easily carve out personal perceptions, in spite of (or even thanks to) their flaws.